Cabbages and Kings by O Henry

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The Proem"Fox-in-the-Morning"The Lotus and the BottleSmithCaughtCupid's Exile Number TwoThe Phonograph and the GraftMoney MazeThe AdmiralThe Flag ParamountThe Shamrock and the PalmThe Remnants of the CodeShoesShipsMasters of ArtsDickyRouge et NoirTwo RecallsThe Vitagraphoscope

CABBAGES AND KINGS

The Proem

By the Carpenter

They will tell you in Anchuria, that President Miraflores, of thatvolatile republic, died by his own hand in the coast town of Coralio;that he had reached thus far in flight from the inconveniences ofan imminent revolution; and that one hundred thousand dollars,government funds, which he carried with him in an American leathervalise as a souvenir of his tempestuous administration, was neverafterward recovered.

For a ~real~, a boy will show you his grave. It is back of the townnear a little bridge that spans a mangrove swamp. A plain slab ofwood stands at its head. Some one has burned upon the headstone witha hot iron this inscription:

It is characteristic of this buoyant people that they pursue no manbeyond the grave. "Let God be his judge!"--Even with the hundredthousand unfound, though they greatly coveted, the hue and cry wentno further than that.

To the stranger or the guest the people of Coralio will relate thestory of the tragic end of their former president; how he stroveto escape from the country with the publice funds and also with DonaIsabel Guilbert, the young American opera singer; and how, beingapprehended by members of the opposing political party in Coralio,he shot himself through the head rather than give up the funds, and,in consequence, the Senorita Guilbert. They will relate furtherthat Dona Isabel, her adventurous bark of fortune shoaled by thesimultaneous loss of her distinguished admirer and the souvenirhundred thousand, dropped anchor on this stagnant coast, awaitinga rising tide.

They say, in Coralio, that she found a prompt and prosperous tidein the form of Frank Goodwin, an American resident of the town,an investor who had grown wealthy by dealing in the products ofthe country--a banana king, a rubber prince, a sarsaparilla, indigoand mahogany baron. The Senorita Guilbert, you will be told, marriedSenor Goodwin one month after the president's death, thus, in thevery moment when Fortune had ceased to smile, wresting from hera gift greater than the prize withdrawn.

Of the American, Don Frank Goodwin, and of his wife the natives havenothing but good to say. Don Frank has lived among them for years,and has compelled their respect. His lady is easily queen of whatsocial life the sober coast affords. The wife of the governor of thedistrict, herself, who was of the proud Castilian family of Monteleony Dolorosa de los Santos y Mendez, feels honored to unfold her napkinwith olive-hued, ringed hands at the table of Senora Goodwin. Wereyou to refer (with your northern prejudices) to the vivacious pastof Mrs. Goodwin when her audacious and gleeful abandon in light operacaptured the mature president's fancy, or to her share in thatstatesman's downfall and malfeasance, the Latin shrug of the shoulderwould be your only answer and rebuttal. What prejudices there werein Coralio concerning Senora Goodwin seemed now to be in her favor,whatever they had been in the past.

It would seem that the story is ended, instead of begun; that theclose of tragedy and the climax of a romance have covered the groundof interest; but, to the more curious reader it shall be some slightinstruction to trace the close threads that underlie the ingeniousweb of circumstances.

The headpiece bearing the name of President Miraflores is dailyscrubbed with soap-bark and sand. An old half-breed Indian tends thegrave with fidelity and the dawdling minuteness of inherited sloth.He chops down the weeds and ever-springing grass with his machete, heplucks ants and scorpions and beetles from it with his horny fingers,and sprinkles its turf with water from the plaza fountain. There isno grave anywhere so well kept and ordered.

Only by following out the underlying threads will it be made clearwhy the old Indian, Galves, is secretly paid to keep green the graveof President Miraflores by one who never saw that unfortunatestatesman in life or in death, and why that one was wont to walkin the twilight, casting from a distance looks of gentle sadness uponthat unhonored mound.

Elsewhere than at Coralio one learns of the impetuous careerof Isabel Guilbert. New Orleans gave her birth and the mingledFrench and Spanish creole nature that tinctured her life with suchturbulence and warmth. She had little education, but a knowledge ofmen and motives that seemed to have come by instinct. Far beyond thecommon woman was she endowed with intrepid rashness, with a love forthe pursuit of adventure to the brink of danger, and with desire forthe pleasures of life. Her spirit was one to chafe under any curb;she was Eve after the fall, but before the bitterness of it was felt.She wore life as a rose in her bosom.

Of the legion of men who had been at her feet it was said thatbut one was so fortunate as to engage her fancy. To PresidentMiraflores, the brilliant but unstable ruler of Anchuria, she yieldedthe key to her resolute heart. How, then, do we find her (as theCoralians would have told you) the wife of Frank Goodwin, and happilyliving a life of dull and dreamy inaction?

The underlying threads reach far, stretching across the sea.Following them out it will be made plain why "Shorty" O'Day, of theColumbia Detective Agency, resigned his position. And, for a lighterpastime, it shall be a duty and a pleasing sport to wander with Momusbeneath the tropic stars where Melpomene once stalked austere. Nowto cause laughter to echo from those lavish jungles and frowing cragswhere formerly rang the cries of pirate's victims; to lay aside pikeand cutlass and attack with quip and jollity; to draw one savingtitter of mirth from the rusty casque of Romance--this were pleasantto do in the shade of the lemon-trees on that coast that is curvedlike lips set for smiling.

For there are yet tales of the Spanish Main. That segment ofcontinent washed by the tempestuous Caribbean, and presenting to thesea a formidable border of tropicle jungle topped by the overweeningCordilleras, is still begirt by mystery and romance. In past times,buccaneers and revolutionists roused the echoes of its cliffs, andthe condor wheeled perpetually above where, in the green groves,they made food for him with their matchlocks and toledos. Taken andretaken by sea rovers, by adverse powers and by sudden uprising ofrebellious factions, the historic 300 miles of adventurous coast hasscarcely known for hundreds of years whom rightly to call its master.Pizarro, Balboa, Sir Francis Drake, and Bolivar did what they couldto make it a part of Christendom. Sir John Morgan, Lafitte and othereminent swashbucklers bombarded and pounded it in the name ofAbaddon.

The game still goes on. The guns of the rovers are silenced; but thetintype man, the enlarged photograph brigand, the kodaking touristand the scouts of the gentle brigade of fakirs have found it out, andcarry on the work. The hucksters of Germany, France, and Sicily nowbag in small change across their counters. Gentlemen adventurersthrong the waiting-rooms of its rulers with proposals for railwaysand concessions. The little ~opera-bouffe~ nations play atgovernment and intrigue until some day a big, silent gunboat glidesinto the offing and warns them not to break their toys. And withthese changes comes also the small adventurer, with empty pockets tofill, light of heart, busy-brained--the modern fairy prince, bearingan alarm clock with which, more surely than by the sentimentalkiss, to awaken the beautiful tropics from their centuries' sleep.Generally he wears a shamrock, which he matches pridefully againstthe extravagant palms; and it is he who had driven Melpomene tothe wings, and set Comedy to dancing before the footlights of theSouthern Cross.

So, there is a little tale to tell of many things. Perhaps to thepromiscuous ear of the Walrus it shall come with most avail; for init there are indeed shoes and ships and sealing-wax and cabbage-palmsand presidents instead of kings.

Add to these a little love and counterplotting, and scattereverywhere throughout the maze a trail of tropical dollars--dollarswarmed no more by the torrid sun than by the hot palms of the scoutsof Fortune--and, after all, here seems to be Life, itself, with talkenough to weary the most garrulous of Walruses.

I

"Fox-in-the-Morning"

Coralio reclined, in the mid-day heat, like some vacuous beautylounging in a guarded harem. The town lay at the sea's edge ona strip of alluvial coast. It was set like a little pearl in anemerald band. Behind it, and seeming almost to topple, imminent,above it, rose the sea-following range of the Cordilleras. In frontthe sea was spread, a smiling jailer, but even more incorruptiblethan the frowning mountains. The waves swished along the smoothbeach; the parrots screamed in the orange and ceiba-trees; the palmswaved their limber fronds foolishly like an awkward chorus at theprima donna's cue to enter.

The word passed quickly. Telegrams do not come to any one inCoralio. The cry for Senor Goodwin was taken up by a dozen officiousvoices. The main street running parallel to the beach becamepopulated with those who desired to expedite the delivery of thedispatch. Knots of women with complexions varying from palest oliveto deepest brown gathered at street corners and plaintively carolled:"~Un telegrafo por Senor~ Goodwin!" The ~comandante~, Don Senorel Coronel Encarnacion Rios, who was loyal to the Ins and suspectedGoodwin's devotion to the Outs, hissed: "Aha!" and wrote in hissecret memorandum book the accusive fact that Senor Goodwin had onthat momentous date received a telegram.

In the midst of the hullabaloo a man stepped to the door of a smallwooden building and looked out. Above the door was a sign that read"Keogh and Clancy"--a nomenclature that seemed not to be indigenousto that tropical soil. The man in the door was Billy Keogh, scoutof fortune and progress and latter-day rover of the Spanish Main.Tintypes and photographs were the weapons with which Keogh and Clancywere at that time assailing the hopeless shores. Outside the shopwere set two large frames filled with specimens fo their art andskill.

Keogh leaned in the doorway, his bold and humorous countenancewearing a look of interest at the unusual influx of life and soundin the street. When the meaning of the disturbance became clearto him he placed a hand beside his mouth and shouted: "Hey! Frank!"in such a robustious voice that the feeble clamor of the natives wasdrowned and silenced.

Fifty yards away, on the seaward side of the street, stood theabode of the consul for the United States. Out from the door ofthis building tumbled Goodwin at the call. He had been smokingwith Willard Geddie, the consul, on the back porch of the consulate,which was conceded to be the coolest spot in Coralio.

"Hurry up," shouted Keogh. "There's a riot in town on account ofa telegram that's come for you. You want to be careful about thesethings, my boy. It won't do to trifle with the feelings of the publicthis way. You'll be getting a pink note some day with violet scenton it; and then the country'll be steeped in the throes of arevolution."

Goodwin had strolled up the street and met the boy with the message.The ox-eyed women gazed at him with shy admiration, for his typedrew them. He was big, blond, and jauntily dressed in white linen,with buckskin ~zapatos~. His manner was courtly, with a mercifuleye. When the telegram had been delivered, and the bearer of itdismissed with a gratuity, the relieved populace returned to thecontiguities of shade from which curiosity had drawn it--the womento their baking in the mud ovens under the orange-trees, or to theinterminable combing of their long, straight hair; the men to theircigarettes and gossip in the cantinas.

Goodwin sat on Keogh's doorstep, and read his telegram. It was fromBob Englehart, an American, who lived in San Mateo, the capital cityof Anchuria, eighty miles in the interior. Englehart was a goldminer, an ardent revolutionist and "good people." That he was a manof resource and imagination was proven by the telegram he had sent.It had had been his task to send a confidential message to his friendin Coralio. This could not have been accomplished in either Spanishor English, for the eye politic in Anchuria was an active one. ButEnglehart was a diplomatist. There existed but one code upon whichhe might make requisition with promise of safety--the great andpotent code of Slang. So, here is the message that slipped,unconstrued, through the fingers of curious officials, and cameto the eye of Goodwin:

"His Nibs skedaddled yesterday per jack-rabbit line with all the coin in the kitty and the bundle of muslin he's spoony about. The boodle is six figures short. Our crowd in good shape, but we need the spondulicks. You collar it. The main guy and the dry goods are headed for the briny. You to know what to do.

BOB."

This screed, remarkable as it was, had no mystery for Goodwin.He was the most successful of the small advance-guard of speculativeAmericans that had invaded Anchuria, and he had not reached thatenviable pinnacle without having well exercised the arts of foresightand deduction. He had taken up political intrigue as a matter ofbusiness. He was acute enough to wield a certain influence amongthe leading schemers, and he was prosperous enough to be able topurchase the respect of the petty-officeholders. There was alwaysa revolutionary party; and to it he had allied himself; for theadherents of a new administration received the rewards of theirlabors. There was now a Liberal party seeking to overturn PresidentMiraflores. If the wheel successfully revolved, Goodwin stood to wina concession to 30,000 manzanas of the finest coffee lands in theinterior. Certain incidents in the recent career of PresidentMiraflores had excited a shrewd suspicion in Goodwin's mind that thegovernment was near a dissolution from another cause than that of arevolution, and now Englehart's telegram had come as a corroborationof his wisdom.

The telegram, which had remained unintelligible to the Anchurianlinguists who had applied to it in vain their knowledge of Spanishand elemental English, conveyed a stimulating piece of news toGoodwin's understanding. It informed him that the president of therepublic had decamped from the capital city with the contents of thetreasury. Furthermore, that he was accompanied in his flight by thatwinning adventuress Isabel Guilbert, the opera singer, whose troupeof performers had been entertained by the president at San Mateoduring the past month on a scale less modest than that with whichroyal visitors are often content. The reference to the "jackrabbitline" could mean nothing else than the mule-back system of transportthat prevailed between Coralio and the capital. The hint that the"boodle" was "six figures short" made the condition of the nationaltreasury lamentably clear. Also it was convincingly true that theingoing party--its way now made a pacific one--would need the"spondulicks." Unless its pledges should be fulfilled, and thespoils held for the delectation of the victors, precarious indeed,would be the position of the new government. Therefore it wasexceeding necessary to "collar the main guy," and recapture thesinews of war and government.

Goodwin handed the message to Keogh.

"Read that, Billy," he said. "It's from Bob Englehart. Can youmanage the cipher?"

Keogh sat in the other half of the doorway, and carefully perusedthe telegram.

"'Tis not a cipher," he said, finally. "'Tis what they callliterature, and that's a system of language put in the mouthsof people that they've never been introduced to by writers ofimagination. The magazines invented it, but I never knew before thatPresident Norvin Green had stamped it with the seal of his approval.'Tis now no longer literature, but language. The dictionaries tried,but they couldn't make it go for anything but dialect. Sure, nowthat the Western Union indorses it, it won't be long till a race ofpeople will spring up that speaks it."

"You're running too much to philology, Billy," said Goodwin. "Do youmake out the meaning of it?"

"Sure," replied the philosopher of Fortune. "All languages come easyto the man who must know 'em. I've even failed to misunderstand anorder to evacuate in classical Chinese when it was backed up by themuzzle of a breech-loader. This little literary essay I hold in myhands means a game of Fox-in-the-Morning. Ever play that, Frank,when you was a kid?"

"You do not," interrupted Keogh. "You've got a fine sporting gamemixed up in your head with 'All Around the Rosebush.' The spirit of'Fox-in-the-Morning' is opposed to the holding of hands. I'll tellyou how it's played. This president man and his companion in play,they stand up over in San Mateo, ready for the run, and shout:"Fox-in-the-Morning!' Me and you, standing here, we say: 'Gooseand Gander!' They say: 'How many miles is it to London town?' Wesay: 'Only a few, if your legs are long enough. How many comes out?'They say: 'More than you're able to catch.' And then the gamecommences."

"I catch the idea," said Goodwin. "It won't do to let the gooseand gander slip through your fingers, Billy; their feathers are toovaluable. Our crowd is prepared and able to step into the shoesof the government at once; but with the treasury empty we'd stayin power about as long as a tenderfoot would stick on an untamedbronco. We must play the fox on every foot of the coast to preventtheir getting out of the country."

"By the mule-back schedule," said Keogh, "it's five days down fromSan Mateo. We've got plenty of time to set our outposts. There'sonly three places on the coast where they can hope to sail from--hereand Solitas and Alazan. They're the only points we'll have to guard.It's as easy as a chess problem--fox to play, and mate in threemoves. Oh, goosey, goosey, gander, whither do you wander? By theblessing of the literary telegraph the boodle of this benightedfatherland shall be preserved to the honest political party thatis seeking to overthrow it."

The situation had been justly outlined by Keogh. The down trailfrom the capital was at all times a weary road to travel. A jiggety-joggety journey it was; ice-cold and hot, wet and dry. The trailclimbed appalling mountains, wound like a rotten string about thebrows of breathless precipices, plunged through chilling snow-fedstreams, and wriggled like a snake through sunless forests teemingwith menacing insect and animal life. After descending to thefoothills it turned to a trident, the central prong ending at Alazan.Another branched off to Coralio; the third penetrated to Solitas.Between the sea and the foothills stretched the five miles breadthof alluvial coast. Here was the flora ofthe tropics in its rankestand most prodigal growth. Spaces here and there had been wrestedfrom the jungle and planted with bananas and cane and orange groves.The rest was a riot of wild vegetation, the home of monkeys, tapirs,jaguars, alligators, and prodigious reptiles and insects. Where noroad was cut a serpent could scarcely make its way through the tangleof vines and creepers. Across the treacherous mangrove swamps fewthings without wings could safely pass. Therefore the fugitivescould hope to reach the coast only by one of the routes named.

"Keep the matter quiet, Billy," advised Goodwin. "We don't wantthe Ins to know that the president is in flight. I suppose Bob'sinformation is something of a scoop in the capital as yet. Otherwisehe would not have tried to make his message a confidential one; and,besides, everybody would have heard the news. I'm going around nowto see Dr. Zavalla, and start a man up the trail to cut the telegraphwire."

As Goodwin rose, Keogh threw his hat upon the grass by the door andexpelled a tremendous sigh.

"'Tis the last," said Keogh. "With that sorrowful puff of windI resign myself to a life of praiseworthy but harassing honesty.What are tintypes, if you please, to the opportunities of the greatand hilarious class of ganders and geese? Not that I would be apresident, Frank--and the boodle he's got is too big for me to handle--but in some ways I feel my conscience hurting me for addictingmyself to photographing a nation instead of running away with it.Frank, did you ever see the 'bundle of muslin' that His Excellencyhas wrapped up and carried off?"

"Isabel Guilbert?" said Goodwin, laughing. "No, I never did. Fromwhat I've heard of her, though, I imagine that she wouldn't stick atanything to carry her point. Don't get romantic, Billy. SometimesI begin to fear that there's Irish blood in your ancestry."

"I never saw her either," went on Keogh; "but they say she's got allthe ladies of mythology, sculpture, and fiction reduced to chromos.They say she can look at a man once, and he'll turn monkey and climbtrees to pick coconuts for her. Think of that president man withLord know how many hundreds of thousands of dollars in one hand,and this muslin siren in the other, galloping down the hill on asympathetic mule amid songbirds and flowers! And here is BillyKeogh, because he is virtuous, condemned to the unprofitable swindleof slandering the faces of missing links on tin for an honest living!'Tis an injustice of nature."

"Cheer up," said Goodwin. "You are a pretty poor fox to be envyinga gander. Maybe the enchanting Guilbert will take a fancy to you andyour tintypes after we impoverish her royal escort."

"She could do worse," reflected Keogh; "but she won't. 'Tis nota tintype gallery, but a gallery of the gods that she's fitted toadorn. She's a very wicked lady, and the president man is in luck.But I hear Clancy swearing in the back room for having to do all thework." And Keogh plunged for the rear of the "gallery," whistlinggaily in a spontaneous way that belied his recent sigh over thequestionable good luck of the flying president.

Goodwin turned from the main street into a much narrower one thatintersected it at a right angle.

These side streets were covered by a growth of thick, rank grass,which was kept to a navigable shortness by the machetes of thepolice. Stone sidewalks, little more than a ledge in width, ranalong the base of the mean and monotonous adobe houses. At theoutskirts of the village these streets dwindled to nothing; and herewere set the palm-thatched huts of the Caribs and the poorer natives,and the shabby cabins of negroes from Jamaica and the West Indiaislands. A few structures raised their heads above the red-tiledroofs of the one-story houses--the bell tower of the ~Calaboza~,the Hotel de los Extranjeros, the residence of the Vesuvius FruitCompany's agent, the store and residence of Bernard Brannigan,a ruined cathedral in which Columbus had once set foot, and, mostimposing of all, the Casa Morena--the summer "White House" ofthe President of Anchuria. On the principal street running alongthe beach--the Broadway of Coralio--were the larger stores, thegovernment ~bodega~ and post-office, the ~cuartel~, the rum-shopsand the market place.

On his way Goodwin passed the house of Bernard Brannigan. It was amodern wooden building, two stories in height. The ground floor wasoccupied by Brannigan's store, the upper one contained the livingapartments. A wide cool porch ran around the house half way up itsouter walls. A handsome, vivacious girl neatly dressed in flowingwhite leaned over the railing and smiled down upon Goodwin. She wasno darker than many an Andalusian of high descent; and she sparkledand glowed like a tropical moonlight.

"Good evening, Miss Paula," said Goodwin, taking off his hat, withhis ready smile. There was little difference in his manner whetherhe addressed women or men. Everybody in Coralio liked to receivethe salutation of the big American.

"Is there any news, Mr. Goodwin? Please don't say no. Isn't itwarm? I feel just like Mariana in her moated grange--or was it arange?--it's hot enough."

"No, there's no news to tell, I believe," said Goodwin, with amischievous look in his eye, "except that old Geddie is gettinggrumpier and crosser every day. If something doesn't happen torelieve his mind I'll have to quit smoking on his back porch--andthere's no other place available that is cool enough."

"He isn't grumpy," said Paula Brannigan, impulsively, "when he--"

But she ceased suddenly, and drew back with a deepening color;for her mother had been a ~mestizo~ lady, and the Spanish bloodhad brought to Paula a certain shyness that was an adornment tothe other half of her demonstrative nature.

II

The Lotus And The Bottle

Willard Greddie, consul for the United States in Coralio, was workingleisurely on his yearly report. Goodwin, who had strolled in as hedid daily for a smoke on the much coveted porch, had found him soabsorbed in his work that he departed after roundly abusing theconsul for his lack of hospitality.

"I shall complain to the civil service department," said Goodwin;--"or is it a department?--perhaps it's only a theory. One gets neithercivility nor service from you. You won't talk; and you won't set outanything to drink. What kind of a way is that of representing yourgovernment?"

Goodwin strolled out and across to the hotel to see if he could bullythe quarantine doctor into a game on Coralio's solitary billiardtable. His plans were completed for the interception of thefugitives from the capital; and now it was but a waiting game thathe had to play.

The consul was interested in his report. He was only twenty-four;and he had not been in Coralio long enough for his enthusiasm to coolin the heat of the tropics--a paradox that may be allowed betweenCancer and Capricorn.

So many thousand bunches of bananas, so mnay thousand oranges andcoconuts, so many ounces of gold dust, pounds of rubber, coffee,indigo and sarparilla--actually, exports were twenty per cent greaterthan for the previous year!

A little thrill of satisfaction ran through the consul. Perhaps,he thought, the State Department, upon reading his introduction,would notice--and then he leaned back in his chair and laughed.He was getting as bad as the others. For the moment he had forgottenthat Coralio was an insignificant republic lying along the by-waysof a second-rate sea. He thought of Gregg, the quarantine doctor,who subscribed for the London ~Lancet~, expecting to find it quotinghis reports to the home Board of Health concerning the yellow fevergerm. The consul knew that not one in fifty of his acquaintances inthe States had ever heard of Coralio. He knew that two men, at anyrate, would have to read his report--some underling in the StateDepartment and a compositor in the Public Printing Office. Perhapsthe typesticker would note the increase of commerce in Coralio, andspeak of it, over the cheese and beer, to a friend.

He had just written: "Most unaccountable is the supineness of thelarge exporters in the United States in permitting the French andGerman houses to practically control the trade interests of thisrich and productive country"--when he heard the hoarse notes ofa steamer's siren.

Geddie laid down his pen and gathered his Panama hat and umbrella.By the sound he knew it to be the ~Valhalla~, one of the line offruit vessels plying for the Vesuvius Company. Down to ~ninos~ offive years, every one in Coralio could name you each incoming steamerby the note of her siren.

The consul sauntered by a roundabout, shaded way to the beach.By reason of long practice he gauged his stroll so accurately thatby the time he arrived on the sandy shore the boat of the customsofficials was rowing back from the steamer, which had been boardedand inspected according to the laws of Anchuria.

There is no harbor at Coralio. Vessels of the draught of the~Valhalla~ must ride at anchor a mile from shore. When they take onfruit it is conveyed on lighters and freighter sloops. At Solitas,where there was a fine harbor, ships of many kinds were to be seen,but in the roadstead off Coralio scarcely any save the fruiterspaused. Now and then a tramp coaster, or a mysterious brig fromSpain, and then a tramp coaster, or a mysterious brig from Spain,or a saucy French barque would hang innocently for a few days inthe offing. Then the custom-house crew would become doubly vigilantand wary. At night a sloop or two would be making strange trips inand out along the shore; and in the morning the stock of Three-StarHennessey, wines and drygoods in Coralio would be found vastlyincreased. It has also been said that the customs officials jingledmore silver in the pockets of their red-striped trousers, and thatthe record books showed no increase in import duties received.

The custom's boat and the ~Valhalla~ gig reached the shore at thesame time. When they grounded in the shallow water there was stillfive yards of rolling surf between them and dry sand. Then half-clothed Caribs dashed into the water, and brought in on their backsthe ~Valhalla's~ purser, and the little native officials in theircotton undershirts, blue trousers with red stripes, and flappingstraw hats.

At college Geddie had been a treasure as a first-baseman. He nowclosed his umbrella, stuck it upright in the sand, and stooped,with his hands resting upon his knees. The purser, burlesquingthe pitcher's contortions, hurled at the consul the heavy roll ofnewspapers, tied with a string, that the steamer always brought forhim. Geddie leaped high and caught the roll with a sounding "thwack."The loungers on the beach--about a third of the population of thetown--laughed and applauded delightedly. Every week they expectedto see that roll of papers delivered and received in that samemanner, and they were never disappointed. Innovations did notflourish in Coralio.

The consul re-hoisted his umbrella and walked back to the consulate.

This home of a great nation's representative was a wooden structureof two rooms, with a native-built gallery of poles, bamboo andnipa palm running on three sides of it. One room was the officialapartment, furnished chastely with a flat-top desk, a hammock, andthree uncomfortable cane-seated chairs. Engravings of the first andlatest president of the country represented hung against the wall.The other room was the consul's living apartment.

It was eleven o'clock when he returned from the beach, and thereforebreakfast time. Chanca, the Carib woman who cooked for him, was justserving the meal on the side of the gallery facing the sea--a spotfamous as the coolest in Coralio. The breakfast consisted of shark'sfin soup, stew of land crabs, breadfruit, a boiled iguana steak,aquacates, a freshly cut pineapple, claret and coffee.

Geddie took his seat, and unrolled with luxurious laziness his bundleof newspapers. Here in Coralio for two days or longer he would readthe goings-on in the world very much as we of the world read thosewhimsical contributions to inexact science that assume to portray thedoings of the Martians. After he had finished with the papers theywould be sent on the rounds of the other English-speaking residentsof the town.

The paper that came first to his hand was one of those bulkymattresses of printed stuff upon which the readers of certainNew York journals are supposed to take their Sabbath literary nap.Opening this the consul rested it upon the table, supporting itsweight with the aid of the back of a chair. Then he partook of hismeal deliberately, turning the leaves from time to time and glancinghalf idly at the contents.

Presently he was struck by something familiar to him in a picture--a half-page, badly printed reproduction of a photograph of a vessel.Languidly interested, he leaned for a nearer scrutiny and a view ofthe florid headlines of the column next to the picture.

Yes; he was not mistaken. The engraving was of the eight-hundred-tonyacht ~Idalia~, belonging to "that prince of good fellows, Midas ofthe money market, and society's pink of perfection, J. Ward Tolliver."

Slowly sipping his black coffee, Geddie read the column of print.Following a listed statement of Mr. Tolliver's real estate and bonds,came a description of the yacht's furnishings, and then the grain ofnews no bigger than a mustard seed. Mr. Tolliver, with a party offavored guests, would sail the next day on a six weeks' cruise alongthe Central American and South American coasts and among the BahamaIslands. Among the guests were Mrs. Cumberland Payne and Miss IdaPayne, of Norfolk.

The writer, with the fatuous presumption that was demanded of himby his readers, had concocted a romance suited to their palates.He bracketed the names of Miss Payne and Mr. Tolliver until he hadwell-nigh read the marriage ceremony over them. He played coyly andinsinuatingly upon the strings of "~on dit~" and "Madame Rumor" and"a little bird" and "no one would be surprised," and ended withcongratulations.

Geddie, having finished his breakfast, took his papers to the edgeof the gallery, and sat there in his favorite steamer chair with hisfeet on the bamboo railing. He lighted a cigar, and looked out uponthe sea. He felt a glow of satisfaction at finding he was so littledisturbed by what he had read. He told himself that he had conqueredthe distress that had sent him, a voluntary exile, to this far landof the lotus. He could never forget Ida, of course; but there wasno longer any pain in thinking about her. When they had had thatmisunderstanding and quarrel he had impulsively sought thisconsulship, with the desire to retaliate upon her by detachinghimself from her world and presence. He had succeeded thoroughlyin that. During the twelve months of his life in Coralio no word hadpassed between them, though he had sometimes heard of her through thedilatory correspondence with the few friends to whom he still wrote.Still he could not repress a little thrill of satisfaction at knowingthat she had not yet married Tolliver or any one else. But evidentlyTolliver had not yet abandoned hope.

Well, it made no difference to him now. He had eaten of the lotus.He was happy and content in this land of perpetual afternoon. Thoseold days of life in the States seemed like an irritating dream. Hehoped Ida would be as happy as he was. The climate as balmy as thatof distant Avalon; the fetterless, idyllic round of enchanted days;the life among this indolent, romantic people--a life full of music,flowers, and low laughter; the influence of the imminent sea andmountains, and the many shapes of love and magic and beauty thatbloomed in the white tropic nights--with all he was more thancontent. Also, there was Paula Brannigan.

Geddie intended to marry Paula--if, of course, she would consent;but he felt rather sure that she would do that. Somehow, he keptpostponing his proposal. Several times he had been quite near to it;but a mysterious something always held him back. Perhaps it was onlythe unconscious, instinctive conviction that the act would sever thelast tie that bound him to his old world.

He could be very happy with Paula. Few of the native girls could becompared with her. She had attended a convent school in New Orleansfor two years; and when she chose to display her accomplishments noone could detect any difference between her and the girls of Norfolkand Manhattan. But it was delicious to see her at home dressed, asshe sometimes was, in the native costume, with bare shoulders andflowing sleeves.

Bernard Brannigan was the great merchant of Coralio. Besides hisstore, he maintained a train of pack mules, and carried on a livelytrade with the interior towns and villages. He had married a nativelady of high Castilian descent, but with a tinge of Indian brownshowing through her olive cheek. The union of the Irish and theSpanish had produced, as it so often has, an offshoot of rare beautyand variety. They were very excellent people indeed, and the upperstory of the house was ready to be placed at the service of Geddieand Paula as soon as he should make up his mind to speak about it.

By the time two hours were whiled away the consul tired of reading.The papers lay scattered about him on the gallery. Reclining there,he gazed dreamily out upon an Eden. A clump of banana plantsinterposed their broad shields between him and the sun. The gentleslope from the consulate to the sea was covered with the dark-greenfoliage of lemon-trees and orange-trees just bursting into bloom.A lagoon pierced the land like a dark, jagged crystal, and above it apale ceiba-tree rose almost to the clouds. The waving coconut palmson the beach flared their decorative green leaves against the slateof an almost quiescent sea. His senses were cognizant of brilliantscarlet and ochres and the vert of the coppice, of odors of fruit andbloom and the smoke from Chanca's clay oven under the calabash-tree;of the treble laughter of the native women in their huts, the song ofthe robin, the salt taste of the breeze, the diminuendo of the faintsurf running along the shore--and, gradually, of a white speck,growing to a blur, that intruded itself upon the drab prospect ofthe sea.

Lazily interested, he watched this blur increase until it becamethe ~Idalia~ steaming at full speed, coming down the coast. Withoutchanging his position he kept his eyes upon the beautiful white yachtas she drew swiftly near, and came opposite to Coralio. Then, sittingupright, he saw her float steadily past and on. He had seen thefrequent splash of her polished brass work and the stripes of herdeck-awnings--so much, and no more. Like a ship on a magic lanternslide the ~Idalia~ had crossed the illuminated circle of the consul'slittle world, and was gone. Save for the tiny cloud of smoke thatwas left hanging over the brim of the sea, she might have been animmaterial thing, a chimera of his idle brain.

Geddie went into his office and sat down to dawdle over his report.If the reading of the article in the paper had left him unshaken,this silent passing of the ~Idalia~ had done for him still more.It had brought the calm and peace of a situation from which alluncertainty had been erased. He knew that men sometimes hope withoutbeing aware of it. Now, since she had come two thousand miles andhad passed without a sign, not even his unconscious self need clingto the past any longer.

After dinner, when the sun was low behind the mountains, Geddiewalked on the little strip of beach under the coconuts. The windwas blowing mildly landward, and the surface of the sea was rippledby tiny wavelets.

A miniature breaker, spreading with a soft "swish" upon the sandbrought with its something round and shiny that rolled back againas the wave receded. The next influx beached it clear, and Geddiepicked it up. The thing was a long-necked wine bottle of colorlessglass. The cork had been driven in tightly to the level of themouth, and the end covered with dark-red sealing-wax. The bottlecontained only what seemed to be a sheet of paper, much curled fromthe manipulation it had undergone while being inserted. In thesealing-wax was the impression of a seal--probably of a signet-ring,bearing the initials of a monogram; but the impression had beenhastily made, and the letters were past anything more certain thana shrewd conjecture. Ida Payne had always worn a signet-ring inpreference to any other finger decoration. Geddie thought he couldmake out the familiar "I P"; and a queer sensation of disquietudewent over him. More personal and intimate was this reminder ofher than had been the sight of the vessel she was doubtless on.He walked back to his house, and set the bottle on his desk.

Throwing off his hat and coat, and lighting a lamp--for the night hadcrowded precipitately upon the brief twilight--he began to examinehis piece of sea salvage.

By holding the bottle near the light and turning it judiciously, hemade out that it contained a double sheet of note-paper filled withclose writing; further, that the paper was of the same size and shadeas that always used by Ida; and that, to the best of his belief, thehandwriting was hers. The imperfect glass of the bottle so distortedthe rays of light that he could read no word of the writing; butcertain capital letters, of which he caught comprehensive glimpses,were Ida's, he felt sure.

There was a little smile both of perplexity and amusement in Geddie'seyes as he set the bottle down, and laid three cigars side by sideon his desk. He fetched his steamer chair from the gallery, andstretched himself comfortably. He would smoke those three cigarswhile considering the problem.

For it amounted to a problem. He almost wished that he had not foundthe bottle; but the bottle was there. Why should it have drifted infrom the sea, whence come so many disquieting things, to disturb hispeace?

In this dreamy land, where time seemed so redundant, he had falleninto the habit of bestowing much thought upon even trifling matters.

He bagan to speculate upon many fanciful theories concerning thestory of the bottle, rejecting each in turn.

Ships in danger of wreck or disablement sometimes cast forth suchprecarious messengers calling for aid. But he had seen the ~Idalia~not three hours before, safe and speeding. Suppose the crew hadmutinied and imprisoned the passengers below, and the message was onebegging for succor! But, premising such an improbable outrage, wouldthe agitated captives have taken the pains to fill four pages ofnote-paper with carefully penned arguments to their rescue.

Thus by elimination he soon rid the matter of the more unlikelytheories, and was reduced--though aversely--to the less assailableones that the bottle contained a message to himself. Ida knew hewas in Coralio; she must have launched the bottle while the yachtwas passing and the wind blowing fairly toward the shore.

As soon as Geddie reached this conclusion a wrinkle came between hisbrows and a stubborn look settled around his mouth. He sat lookingout through the doorway at the gigantic fire-flies traversing thequiet streets.

If this was a message to him from Ida, what could it mean save anoverture at reconciliation? And if that, why had she not used thesame methods of the post instead of this uncertain and even flippantmeans of communication? A note in an empty bottle, cast into thesea! There was something light and frivolous about it, if notactually contemptuous.

The thought stirred his pride, and subdued whatever emotions had beenresurrected by the finding of the bottle.

Geddie put on his coat and hat and walked out. He followed a streetthat led him along the border of the little plaza where a band wasplaying and people were rambling, care-free and indolent. Sometimorous ~senoritas~ scurrying past with fire-flies tangled in thejetty braids of their hair glanced at him with shy, flattering eyes.The air was languorous with the scent of jasmin and orange-blossoms.

The consul stayed his steps at the house of Bernard Brannigan. Paulawas swinging in a hammock on the gallery. She rose from it like abird from its nest. The color came to her cheeck at the sound ofGeddie's voice.

He was charmed at the sight of her costume--a flounced muslin dress,with a little jacket of white flannel, all made with neatness andstyle. He suggested a stroll, and they walked out to the old Indianwell on the hill road. They sat on the curb, and there Geddie madethe expected but long-deferred speech. Certain though he had beenthat she would not say him nay, he was still thrilled at thecompleteness and sweetness of her surrender. Here was surely a heartmade for love and steadfastness. Here was no caprice or questioningsor captious standards of convention.

When Geddie kissed Paula at her door that night he was happier thanhe had ever been before. "Here in this hollow lotus land, everto live and lie reclined" seemed to him, as it has seemed to manymariners, the best as well as the easiest. His future would bean ideal one. He had attained a Paradise without a serpent. HisEve would be indeed a part of him, unbeguiled, and therefore morebeguiling. He had made his decision tonight, and his heart was fullof serene, assured content.

Geddie went back to his house whistling that finest and saddest lovesong, "La Golondrina." At the door his tame monkey leaped down fromhis shelf, chattering briskly. The consul turned to his desk to gethim some nuts he usually kept there. Reaching in the half-darkness,his hand struck against the bottle. He started as if he had touchedthe cold rotundity of a serpent.

He had forgotten that the bottle was there.

He lighted the lamp and fed the monkey. Then, very deliberately,he lighted a cigar, and took the bottle in his hand, and walked downthe path to the beach.

There was a moon, and the sea was glorious. The breeze had shifted,as it did each evening, and was now rushing steadily seaward.

Stepping to the water's edge, Geddie hurled the unopened bottle farout into the sea. It disappeared for a moment, and then shot upwardtwice its length. Geddie stood still, watching it. The moonlightwas so bright that he could see it bobbing up and down with thelittle waves. Slowly it receded from the shore, flashing and turningas it went. The wind was carrying it out to sea. Soon it became amere speck, doubtfully discerned at irregular intervals; and then themystery of it was swallowed up by the greater mystery of the ocean.Geddie stood still upon the beach, smoking and looking out upon thewater.

"Simon!--Oh, Simon!--Wake up there, Simon!" bawled a sonorous voiceat the edge of the water.

Old Simon Cruz was a half-breed fisherman and smuggler who lived in ahut on the beach. Out of his earliest nap Simon was thus awakened.

He slipped on his shoes and went outside. Just landing from one ofthe ~Valhalla's~ boats was the third mate of that vessel, who was anacquaintance of Simon's, and three sailors from the fruiter.

"Saints of the skies!" said Simon, sleepily, "nothing has happenedto Mr. Geddie?"

"He's under that tarpauling," said the mate, pointing to the boat,"and he's rather more than half drowned. We seen him from thesteamer nearly a mile out from shore, swimmin' like mad after abottle that was floatin' in the water, outward bound. We lowered thegig and started for him. He nearly had his hand on the bottle, whenhe gave out and went under. We pulled him out in time to save him,maybe; but the doctor is the one to decide that."

"A bottle?" said the old man, rubbing his eyes. He was not yet fullyawake. "Where is the bottle?"

"Driftin' along out there some'eres," said the mate, jerking histhumb toward the sea. "Get on with you, Simon."

III

Smith

Goodwin and the ardent patriot, Zavalla, took all the precautionsthat their foresight could contrive to prevent the escape ofPresident Miraflores and his companion. The sent trusted messengersup the coast to Solitas and Alazan to warn the local leaders ofthe flight, and to instruct them to patrol the water line and arrestthe fugitives at all hazards should they reveal themselves in thatterritory. After this was done there remained only to coverthe district about Coralio and await the coming of the quarry.The nets were well spread. The roads were so few, the opportunitiesfor embarkation so limited, and the two or three probable points ofexit so well guarded that it would be strange indeed if there shouldslip through the meshes so much of the country's dignity, romance,and collateral. The president would, without doubt, move as secretlyas possible, and endeavor to board a vessel by stealth from somesecluded point along the shore.

On the fourth day after the receipt of Englehart's telegram the~Karlsefin~, a Norwegian steamer chartered by the New Orleans fruittrade, anchored off Coralio with three horse toots of her siren.The ~Karlesfin~ ws not one of the line operated by the Vesuvius FruitCompany. She was something of a dilettante, doing odd jobs for acompany that was scarcely important enough to figure as a rival tothe Vesuvius. The movements of the ~Karlesfin~ were dependent uponthe state of the market. Sometimes she would ply steadily betweenthe Spanish Main and New Orleans in the regular transport of fruit;next she would be maing erratic trips to Mobile or Charleston, oreven as far north as New York, according to the distribution ofthe fruit supply.

Goodwin lounged upon the beach with the susual crowd of idlers thathad gathered to view the steamer. Now that President Mirafloresmight be expected to reach the borders of his abjured country at anytime, the orders were to keep a strict and unrelenting watch. Everyvessel that approached the shores might now be considered a possiblemeans of escape for the fugitives; and an eye was kept even onthe slopes and dories that belonged to the sea-going contingentof Coralio. Goodwin and Zavalla moved everywhere, but withoutostentation, watching the loopholes of escape.

The customs official crowded importantly into their boat and rowedout to the ~Karlesfin~. A boat from the steamer landed her purserwith his papers, and took out the quarantine doctor with his greenumbrella and clinical thermometer. Next a swarm of Caribs beganto load upon lighters the thousands of bunches of bananas heapedupon the shore and row them out to the steamer. The ~Karlesfin~had no passenger list, and was soon done with the attention ofthe authorities. The purser declared that the steamer would remainat anchor until morning, taking on her fruit during the night.The ~Karlesfin~ had come, he said, from New York, to which port herlatest load of oranges and coconuts had been conveyed. Two or threeof the freighter sloops were engaged to assist in the work, forthe captain was anxious to make a quick return in order to reapthe advantage offered by a certain dearth of fruit in the States.

About four o'clock in the afternoon another of those marine monsters,not very familiar in those waters, hove in sight, following thefateful ~Idalia~--a graceful steam yacht, painted a light buff,clean-cut as a steel engraving. The beautiful vessel hovered offshore, see-sawing the waves as lightly as a duck in a rain barrel.A swift boat manned by a crew in uniform came ashore, and a stocky-built man leaped to the sands.

The newcomer seemed to turn a disapproving eye upon the rather motleycongregation of native Anchurians, and made his way at once towardGoodwin, who was the most conspicuously Anglo-Saxon figure present.Goodwin greeted him with courtesy.

Conversation developed that the newly landed one was named Smith,and that he had come in a yacht. A meagre biography, truly; forthe yacht was most apparent; and the "Smith" not beyond a reasonableguess before the revelation. Yet to the eye of Goodwin, who hasseen several things, there was a discrepancy between Smith and hisyacht. A bullet-headed man Smith was, with an oblique, dead eyeand the moustache of a cocktail-mixer. And unless he had shiftedcostumes before putting off for shore he had affronted the deck ofhis correct vessel clad in a pearl-gray derby, a gay plaid suit andvaudeville neckwear. Men owning pleasure yachts generally harmonizebetter with them.

Smith looked business, but he was no advertiser. He commented uponthe scenery, remarking upon its fidelity to the pictures in thegeography; and then inquired for the United States consul. Goodwinpointed out the starred-and-striped bunting hanging from above thelittle consulate, which was concealed behind the orange-trees.

"Mr. Geddie, the consul, will be sure to be there," said Goodwin."He was very nearly drowned a few days ago while taking a swim in thesea, and the doctor has ordered him to remain indoors for some time."

Smith ploughed his way through the sand to the consulate, hishaberdashery creating violent discord against the smooth tropicalblues and greens.

Geddie was lounging in his hammock, somewhat pale of face and languidin pose. On that night when the ~Valhalla's~ boat had brought himashore apparently drenched to death by the sea, Doctor Gregg and hisother friends had toiled for hours to preserve the little spark oflife that remained to him. The bottle, with its impotent message,was gone out to sea, and the problem that it had provoked was reducedto a simple sum in addition--one and one make two, by the rule ofarithmetic; one by the rule of romance.

There is a quaint old theory that man may have two souls--aperipheral one which serves ordinarily, and a central one whichis stirred only at certain times, but then with activity and vigor.While under the domination of the former a man will shave, vote, paytaxes, give money to his family, buy subscription books and comporthimself on the average plan. But let the central soul suddenlybecome dominant, and he may, in the twinkling of an eye, turn uponthe partner of his joys with furious execration; he may change hispolitics while you could snap your fingers; he may deal out deadlyinsult to his dearest friend; he may get him, instanter, to amonastery or a dance hall; he may elope, or hang himself--or he maywrite a song or poem, or kiss his wife unasked, or give his fundsto the search of a microbe. Then the peripheral soul will return;and we have our safe, sane citizen again. It is but the revolt ofthe Ego against Order; and its effect is to shake up the atoms onlythat they may settle where they belong.

Geddie's revulsion had been a mild one--no more than a swim ina summer sea after so inglorious an object as a drifting bottle.And now he was himself again. Upon his desk, ready for the post,was a letter to his government tendering his resignation as consul,to be effective as soon as another could be appointed in his place.For Bernard Brannigan, who never did things in a half-way manner,was to take Geddie at once for a partner in his very profitableand various enterprises; and Paula was happily engaged in plans forrefurnishing and decorating the upper story of the Brannigan house.

The consul rose from his hammock when he saw the conspicuous strangerat this door.

"Keep your seat, old man," said the visitor, with an airy wave of hislarge hand. "My name's Smith; and I've come in a yacht. You are theconsul--is that right? A big, cool guy on the beach directed me here.Thought I'd pay my respects to the flag."

"Sit down, said Geddie. "I've been admiring your craft ever since itcame in sight. Looks like a fast sailer. What's her tonnage?"

"Search me!" said Smith. "I don't know what she weighs in at. Butshe's got a tidy gait. The ~Rambler~--that's her name--don't takethe dust of anything afloat. This is my first trip on her. I'mtaking a squint along this coast just to get an idea of the countrieswhere the rubber and red pepper and revolutions come from. I had noidea there was so much scenery down here. Why, Central Park ain'tin it with this neck of the woods. I'm from New York. They getmonkeys, and coconuts, and parrots down here--is that right?"

"We have them all," said Geddie. "I'm quite sure that our fauna andflora would take a prize over Central Park."

"Maybe they would," admitted Smith, cheerfully. "I haven't seen themyet. But I guess you've got us skinned on the animal and vegetationquestion. You don't have much travel here, do you?"

"Travel?" queried the consul. "I suppose you mean passengers onsteamers. No; very few people land in Coralio. An investor now andthen--tourists and sightseers generally go further down the coast toone of the larger towns where there is a harbor."

"I see a ship out there loading up with bananas," said Smith. "Anypassengers come on her?"

"That's the ~Karlesfin~," said the consul. "She's a tramp fruiter--made her last trip to New York, I believe. No; she brought nopassengers. I saw her boat come ashore, and there was no one. Aboutthe only exciting recreation we have here is watching steamers whenthey arrive; and a passenger on one of them generally causes thewhole town to turn out. If you are going to remain in Coralioa while, Mr. Smith, I'll be glad to take you around to meet somepeople. There are four or five American chaps that are good to know,besides the native high-fliers."

"Thanks," said the yachtsman, "but I wouldn't put you the trouble.I'd like to meet the guys you speak of, but I won't be here longenough to do much knocking around. That cool gent on the beach spokeof a doctor; can you tell me where to find him? The ~Rambler~ ain'tquite as steady on her feet as a Broadway hotel; and a fellow getsa touch of seasickness now and then. Thought I'd strike the croakerfor a handful of the little sugar pills, in case I need 'em."

"You will be apt to find Doctor Gregg at the hotel," said the consul."You can see it from the door--it's that two-story building with thebalcony, where the orange-trees are."

The Hotel de los Extranjeros was a dreary hostelry, in great disuseboth by strangers and friends. It stood at a corner of the Streetof the Holy Sepulchre. A grove of small orange-trees crowded againstone side of it, enclosed by a low, rock wall over which a tall manmight easily step. The house was of plastered adobe, stained ahundred shades of color by the salt breeze and the sun. Upon itsupper balcony opened a central door and two windows containing broadjalousies instead of sashes.

The lower floor communicated by two doorways with the narrow,rock-paved sidewalk. The ~pulperia~--or drinking shop--of theproprietess, Madama Timotea Ortiz, occupied the ground floor. Onthe bottles of brandy, ~anisada~, Scotch "smoke," and inexpensivewines behind the little counter the dust lay thick save where thefingers of infrequent customers had left irregular prints. The upperstory contained four or five guest-rooms which were rarely put totheir destined use. Sometimes a fruitgrower, riding in from hisplantation to confer with his agent, would pass a melancholy nightin the dismal upper story; sometimes a minor native official on sometrifling government quest would have his pomp and majesty awed byMadama's sepulchral hospitality. But Madama sat behind her barcontent, not desiring to quarrel with Fate. If any one requiredmeat, drink or lodging at the Hotel de los Extranjeros they had butto come, and be served. ~Esta bueno~. If they came not, why, then,they came not. ~Esta bueno~.

As the exceptional yachtsman was making his way down the precarioussidewalk of the Street of the Holy Sepulchre, the solitary permanentguest of that decaying hotel sat at its door, enjoying the breezefrom the sea.

Doctor Gregg, the quarantine physician, was a man of fifty or sixty,with a florid face and the longest beard between Topeka and Terradel Fuego. He held his position by virtue of an appointment bythe Board of Health of a seaport city in one of the Southern states.That city feared the ancient enemy of every Southern seaport--theyellow fever--and it was the duty of Doctor Gregg to examine crew andpassengers of every vessel leaving Coralio for preliminary symptoms.The duties were light, and the salary, for one who lived in Coralio,ample. Surplus time there was in plenty; and the good doctor addedto his gains by a large private practice among the residents of thecoast. The fact that he did not know ten words of Spanish was noobstacle; a pulse could be felt and a fee collected without one beinga linguist. Add to the description the facts that the doctor hada story to tell concerning the operation of trepanning which nolistener had ever allowed him to conclude, and that he believedin brandy as a prophylactic; and the special points of interestpossessed by Doctor Gregg will have become exhausted.

The doctor had dragged a chair to the sidewalk. He was coatless,and he leaned back against the wall and smoked, while he stroked hisbeard. Surprise came into his pale blue eyes when he caught sightof Smith in his unusual and prismatic clothes.

"You're Doctor Gregg--is that right?" said Smith, feeling the dog'shead pin in his tie. "The constable--I mean the consul, told meyou hung out at this caravansary. My name's Smith; and I came in ayacht. Taking a cruise around, looking at the monkeys and pineapple-trees. Come inside and have a drink, Doc. This cafe looks on theblink, but I guess it can set out something wet."

"I will join you, sir, in just a taste of brandy," said Doctor Gregg,rising quickly. "I find that as a prophylactic a little brandy isalmost a necessity in this climate."

As they turned to enter the ~pulperia~ a native man, barefoot,glided noiselessly up and addressed the doctor in Spanish. He wasyellowish-brown, like an over-ripe lemon; he wore a cotton shirt andragged linen trousers girded by a leather belt. His face was likean animal's, live and wary, but without promise of much intelligence.This man jabbered with animation and so much seriousness that itseemed a pity that his words were to be wasted.

Doctor Gregg felt his pulse.

"You sick?" he inquired.

"~Mi mujer es enferma en la casa,~" said the man, thus endeavoringto convey the news, in the only language open to him, that his wifelay ill in her palm-thatched hut.

The doctor drew a handful of capsules filled with a white powder fromhis trousers pocket. He counted out ten of them into the native'shand, and held up his forefinger impressively.

"Take one," said the doctor, "every two hours." He then held up twofingers, shaking them emphatically before the native's face. Next hepulled out his watch and ran his finger round the dial twice. Againthe two fingers confronted the patient's nose. "Two--two--twohours," repeated the doctor.

"~Si, Senor,~" said the native, sadly.

He pulled a cheap silver watch from his own pocket and laid it inthe doctor's hand. "Me bring," said he, struggling painfully withhis scant English, "other watchy tomorrow," then he departeddownheartedly with his capsules.

"A very ignorant race of people, sir," said the doctor, as he slippedthe watch into his pocket. "He seems to have mistaken my directionsfor taking the physic for the fee. However, it is all right. He owesme an account, anyway. The chances are that he won't bring the otherwatch. You can't depend on anything they promise you. About thatdrink, now? How did you come to Coralio, Mr. Smith? I was not awarethat any boats except the ~Karlesfin~ had arrived for some days."

The two leaned against the deserted bar; and Madama set out a bottlewithout waiting for the doctor's order. There was no dust on it.

After they had drank twice Smith said:

"You say there were no passengers on the ~Karlesfin~, Doc? Are yousure about that? It seems to me I heard somebody down on the beachsay that there was one or two aboard."

"They were mistaken, sir. I myself went out and put all handsthrough a medical examination, as usual. The ~Karlesfin~ sailsas soon as she gets her bananas loaded, which will be about daylightin the morning, and she got everything ready this afternoon. No,sir, there was no passenger list. Like that Three-Star? A Frenchschooner landed two slooploads of it a month ago. If any customsduties on it went to the distinguished republic of Anchuria you mayhave my hat. If you won't have another, come out and let's sitin the cool a while. It isn't often we exiles get a chance to talkwith somebody from the outside world."

The doctor brought out another chair to the sidewalk for his newacquaintance. The two seated themselves.

"You are a man of the world," said Doctor Gregg; "a man of traveland experience. Your decision in a matter of ethics and, no doubt,on the points of equity, ability and professional probity should beof value. I would be glad if you will listen to the history of acase that I think stands unique in medical annals.

"About nine years ago, while I was engaged in the practice ofmedicine in my native city, I was called to treat a case of contusionof the skull. I made the diagnosis that a splinter of bone waspressing upon the brain, and that the surgical operation known astrepanning was required. However, as the patient was a gentlemanof wealth and position, I called in for consultation Doctor--"

Smith rose from his chair, and laid a hand, soft with apology,upon the doctor's shirt sleeve.

"Say, Doc," he said, solemnly, "I want to hear that story. You'vegot me interrested; and I don't want to miss the rest of it. I knowit's a loola by the way it begins; and I want to tell it at the nextmeeting of the Barney O'Flynn Association, if you don't mind.But I've got one or two matters to attend to first. If I get 'emattended to in time I'll come right back and hear you spiel the restbefore bedtime--is that right?"

"By all means," said the doctor, "get your business attended to,and then return. I shall wait up for you. You see, one of the mostprominent physicians at the consultation diagnosed the trouble asa blood clot; another said it was an abscess, but I--"

"Don't tell me now, Doc. Don't spoil the story. Wait till I comeback. I want to hear it as it runs off the reel--is that right?"

The mountains reached up their bulky shoulders to receive the levelgallop of Apollo's homing steeds, the day died in the lagoons andin the shadowed banana groves and in the mangrove swamps, where thegreat blue crabs were beginning to crawl to land for their nightlyramble. And it died, at last, upon the highest peaks. Then thebrief twilight, ephemeral as the flight of a moth, came and went;the Southern Cross peeped with its topmost eye above a row of palms,and the fire-flies heralded with their torches and approach ofsoft-footed night.

In the offing the ~Karlesfin~ swayed at anchor, her lights seemingto penetrate the water to countless fathoms with their shimmering,lanceolate reflections. The Caribs were busy loading her by meansof the great lighters heaped full from the piles of fruit ranged uponthe shore.

On the sandy beach, with his back against a coconut-tree and the stubsof many cigars lying around him, Smith sat waiting, never relaxinghis sharp gaze in the direction of the steamer.

The incongruous yachtsman had concentrated his interest upon theinnocent fruiter. Twice had he been assured that no passengers hadcome to Coralio on board of her. And yet, with a persistence not tobe attributed to an idling voyager, he had appealed the case to thehigher court of his own eyesight. Surprisingly like some gay-coatedlizard, he crouched at the foot of the coconut palm, and with thebeady, shifting eyes of the selfsame reptile, sustained his espionageon the ~Karlesfin~.

On the white sands a whiter gig belonging to the yacht was drawn up,guarded by one of the white-ducked crew. Not far away in a ~pulperia~on the shore-following Calle Grande three other sailors swaggerredwith their cues around Coralio's solitary billiard-table. The boatlay there as if under orders to be ready for use at any moment.There was in the atmosphere a hint of expectation, of waiting forsomething to occur, which was foreign to the air of Coralio.

Like some passing bird of brilliant plumage, Smith alights on thispalmy shore but to preen his wings for an instant and then to flyaway upon silent pinions. When morning dawned there was no Smith,no waiting gig, no yacht in the offing, Smith left no intimation ofhis mission there, no footprints to show where he had followed thetrail of his mystery on the sands of Coralio that night. He came;he spake his strange jargon of the asphalt and the cafes; he satunder the coconut-tree, and vanished. The next morning Coralio,Smithless, ate its fried plantain and said: "The man of picturedclothing went himself away." With the ~siesta~ the incident passed,yawning, into history.

So, for a time, must Smith pass behind the scenes of the play.He comes no more to Coralio, nor to Doctor Gregg, who sits in vain,wagging his redundant beard, waiting to enrich his derelict audiencewith his moving tale of trepanning and jealousy.

But prosperously to the lucidity of these loose pages, Smith shallflutter among them again. In the nick of time he shall come to tellus why he strewed so many anxious cigar stumps around the coconutpalm that night. This he must do; for, when he sailed away beforethe dawn in his yacht ~Rambler~, he carried with him the answer toa riddle so big and preposterous that few in Anchuria had venturedeven to propound it.

IV

Caught

The plans for the detention of the flying President Miraflores andhis companion at the coast line seemed hardly likely to fail. DoctorZavalla himself had gone to the port of Alazan to establish a guardat that point. At Solitas the Liberal patriot Varras could bedepended upon to keep close watch. Goodwin held himself responsiblefor the district about Coralio.

The news of the president's flight had been disclosed to no one inthe coast towns save trusted members of the ambitious political partythat was desirous of succeeding to power. The telegraph wire runningfrom San Mateo to the coast had been cut far up on the mountain trailby an emissary of Zavalla's. Long before this could be repaired andword received along it from the capital the fugitives would havereached the coast and the question of escape or capture been solved.

Goodwin had stationed armed sentinels at frequent intervals alongthe shore for a mile in each direction from Coralio. They wereinstructed to keep a vigilant lookout during the night to preventMiraflores from attempting to embark stealthily by means of some boator sloop found by chance at the water's edge. A dozen patrols walkedthe streets of Coralio unsuspected, ready to intercept the truantofficial should he show himself there.

Goodwin was very well convinced that no precautions had beenoverlooked. He strolled about the streets that bore such high-sounding names and were but narrow, grass-covered lanes, lending hisown aid to the vigil that had been intrusted to him by Bob Englehart.

The town had begun the tepid round of its nightly diversions. A fewleisurely dandies, cald in white duck, with flowing neckties, andswinging slim bamboo canes, threaded the grassy by-ways toward thehouses of their favored senoritas. Those who wooed the art of musicdragged tirelessly at whining concertinas, or fingered lugubriousguitars at doors and windows. An occasional soldier from the~cuartel~, with flapping straw hat, without coat or shoes, hurriedby, balancing his long gun like a lance in one hand. From everydensity of the foliage the giant tree frogs sounded their loud andirritating clatter. Further out, the guttural cries of maraudingbaboons and the coughing of the alligators in the black estuariesfractured the vain silence of the wood.

By ten o'clock the streets were deserted. The oil lamps that hadburned, a sickly yellow, at random corners, had been extinguishedby some economical civic agent. Coralio lay sleeping calmly betweentoppling mountains and encroaching sea like a stolen babe in the armsof its abductors. Somewhere over in that tropical darkness--perhapsalready threading the profundities of the alluvial lowlands--the highadventurer and his mate were moving toward land's end. The game ofFox-in-the-Morning should be coming soon to its close.

Goodwin, at his deliberate gait, passed the long, low ~cuartel~ whereCoralio's contingent of Anchuria's military force slumbered, with itsbare toes pointed heavenward. There was a law that no civilian mightcome so near the headquarters of that citadel of war after nineo'clock, but Goodwin was always forgetting the minor statutes.

"~Americano,~" growled Goodwin, without turning his head, and passedon, unhalted.

To the right he turned, and to the left up the street that ultimatelyreached the Plaza Nacional. When within the toss of a cigar stumpfrom the intersecting Street of the Holy Sepulchre, he stoppedsuddenly in the pathway.

He saw the form of a tall man, clothed in black and carrying a largevalise, hurry down the cross-street in the direction of the beach.And Goodwin's second glance made him aware of a woman at the man'selbow on the farther side, who seemed to urge forward, if not evento assist, her companion in their swift but silent progress. Theywere no Coralians, those two.

Goodwin followed at increased speed, but without any of the artfultactics that are so dear to the heart of the sleuth. The Americanwas too broad to feel the instinct of the detective. He stood asan agent for the people of Anchuria, and but for political reasonshe would have demanded then and there the money. It was the designof his party to secure the imperilled fund, to restore it to thetreasury of the country, and to declare itself in power withoutbloodshed or resistance.

The couple halted at the door of the Hotel de los Extranjeros,and the man struck upon the wood with the impatience of one unusedto his entry being stayed. Madama was long in response, but aftera time her light showed, the door was opened, and the guests housed.

Goodwin stoodin the quiet street, lighting another cigar. Intwo minutes, a faint gleam began to show between the slats of thejalousies in the upper story of the hotel. "They have engaged rooms,"said Goodwin to himself. "So, then, their arrangements for sailinghave yet to be made."

At the moment there came along one Esteban Delgado, a barber,an enemy to existing government, a jovial plotter against stagnationin any form. This barber was one of Coralio's saddest dogs, oftenremaining out of doors as late as eleven, post meridian. He wasa partisan Liberal; and he greeted Goodwin with flatulent importanceas a brother in the cause. But he had something important to tell.

"What think you, Don Frank!" he cried, in the universal tone of theconspirator. "I have tonight shaved ~la barba~--what you call the'weeskers' of the ~Presidente~ himself, of this countree! Consider!He sent for me to come. In the poor ~casita~ of an old woman heawaited me--in a verree leetle house in a dark place. ~Carramba!~--el Senor Presidente to make himself thus secret and obscured!I shave a man and not see his face? This gold piece he gave me, andsaid it was to be all quite still. I think, Don Frank, there is whatyou call a chip over the bug."

"Have you ever seen President Miraflores before?" asked Goodwin.

"But once," answered Esteban. "He is tall; and he had weeskers,verree black and sufficient."

"Was any one else present when you shaved him?"

"An old Indian woman, Senor, that belonged with the ~casa~, and onesenorita--a ladee of so much beautee!--~ah, Dios!~"

"All right, Esteban," said Goodwin. "It's very lucky that youhappened along with your tonsorial information. The newadministration will be likely to remember you for this."

Then in a few words he made the barber acquainted with the crisisinto which the affairs of the nation had culminated, and instructedhim to remain outside, keeping watch upon the two sides of the hotelthat looked upon the street, and observing whether any one shouldattempt to leave the house by any door or window. Goodwin himselfwent to the door through which the guests had entered, opened it andstepped inside.

Madama had returned downstairs from her journey above to see afterthe comfort of her lodgers. Her candle stood upon the bar. She wasabout to take a thimbleful of rum as a solace for having her restdisturbed. She looked up without surprise or alarm as her thirdcaller entered.

"Ah! it is the Senor Goodwin. Not often does he honor my poor housewith his presence."

"I must come oftener," said Goodwin, with a Goodwin smile. "I hearthat your cognac is the best between Belize to the north and Rio tothe south. Set out the bottle, Madama, and let us have the proof in~un vasito~ for each of us."

"My ~aguardiente~," said Madama, with pride, "is the best. It grows,in beautiful bottles, in the dark places among the banana-trees.~Si, Senor~. Only at midnight can they be picked by sailor-menwho bring them, before daylight comes, to your back door. Good~aguardiente~ is a verree difficult fruit to handle, Senor Goodwin."

Smuggling, in Coralio, was much nearer than competition to being thelife of trade. One spoke of it slyly, yet with a certain conceit,when it had been well accomplished.

"You have guests in the house tonight," said Goodwin, laying a silverdollar upon the counter.

"Why not?" said Madama, counting the change. "Two; but the smallestwhile finished to arrive. One senor, not quite old, and one senoritaof sufficient hadsomeness. To their rooms they have ascended, notdesiring the to-eat nor the to-drink. Two rooms--~Numero~9 and~Numero~ 10."

"I was expecting that gentleman and that lady," said Goodwin. "I haveimportant ~negocios~ that must be transacted. Will you allow meto see them?"

Goodwin loosened in his coat pocket the American revolver that hecarried, and ascended the steep, dark stairway.

In the hallway above, the saffron light from a hanging lamp allowedhim to select the gaudy numbers on the doors. He turned the knob onNumber 9, entered and closed the door behind him.

If that was Isabel Guilbert seated by the table in that poorlyfurnished room, report had failed to do her charms justice. Sherested her head upon one hand. Extreme fatigue was signified inevery line of her figure; and upon her countenance a deep perplexitywas written. Her eyes were gray-irised, and of that mold that seemsto have belonged to the orbs of all the famous queens of hearts.Their whites were singularly clear and brilliant, concealed abovethe irises by heavy horizontal lids, and showing a snowy line betweenthem. Such eyes denote great nobility, vigor, and, if you canconceive of it, a most generous selfishness. She looked up whenthe American entered, with an expression of surprised inquiry, butwithout alarm.

Goodwin took off his hat and seated himself, with his characteristicdeliberate ease, upon a corner of the table. He held a lighted cigarbetween his fingers. He took this familiar course because he wassure that preliminaries would be wasted upon Miss Guilbert. He knewher history, and the small part that the conventions had played in it.

"Good evening," he said. "Now, madame, let us come to business atonce. You will observe that I mention no names, but I know who is inthe next room, and what he carries in that valise. That is the pointwhich brings me here. I have come to dictate terms of surrender."

The lady neither moved nor replied, but steadily regarded the cigarin Goodwin's hand.

"We," continued the dictator, thoughtfully regarding the neat buckskinshoe on his gently swinging foot--"I speak for a considerable majorityof the people--demand the return of the stolen funds belonging tothem. Our terms go very little further than that. They are verysimple. As an accredited spokesman, I promise that our interferencewill cease if they are accepted. Give up the money, and you and yourcompanion will be permitted to proceed wherever you will. In fact,assistance will be given you in the matter of securing a passageby any outgoing vessel you may choose. It is on my personalresponsibility that I add congratulations to the gentleman in Number10 upon his taste in feminine charms."

Returning his cigar to his mouth, Goodwin observed her, and saw thather eyes followed it and rested upon it with icy and significantconcentration. Apparently she had not heard a word he had said.He understood, tossed the cigar out the window, and, with an amusedlaugh, slid from the table to his feet.

"That is better," said the lady. "It makes it possible for me tolisten to you. For a second lesson in good manners, you might nowtell me by whom I am being insulted."

"I am sorry," said Goodwin, leaning one hand on the table, "that mytime is too brief for devoting much of it to a course of etiquette.Come, now; I appeal to you good sense. You have shown yourself,in more than one instance, to be well aware of what is to youradvantage. This is an occasion that demands the exercise of yourundoubted intelligence. There is no mystery here. I am FrankGoodwin; and I have come for the money. I entered this room at aventure. Had I entered the other I would have had it before me now.Do you want it in words? The gentleman in Number 10 has betrayeda great trust. He has robbed his people of a large sum, and it isI who will prevent their losing it. I do not say who that gentlemanis; but if I should be forced to see him and he should prove to bea certain high official of the republic, it will be my duty to arresthim. The house is guarded. I am offering you liberal terms. It isnot absolutely necessary that I confer personally with the gentlemanin the next room. Bring me the valise containing the money, and wewill call the affair ended."

The lady arose from her chair and stood for a moment, thinkingdeeply.

"Do you live here, Mr. Goodwin?" she asked, presently.

"Yes."

"What is your authority for this intrusion?"

"I am an instrument of the republic. I was advised by wire of themovements of the--gentleman in Number 10."

"May I ask you two or three questions? I believe you to be a manmore apt to be truthful than--timid. What sort of town is this--Coralio, I think they call it?"

"Not much of a town," said Goodwin, smiling. "A banana town, as theyrun. Grass huts, 'dobes, five or six two-story houses, accomodationslimited, population half-breed Spanish and Indian, Caribs andblackamoors. No sidewalks to speak of, no amusements. Ratherunmoral. That'a an offhand sketch, of course."

"Are there any inducements, say in a social or in a business way,for people to reside here?"

"He told me," went on the lady, speaking as if to herself, and witha slight frown, "that there were towns on this coast of beauty andimportance; that there was a pleasing social order--especially anAmerican colony of cultured residents."

"There is an American colony," said Goodwin, gazing at her in somewonder. "Some of the members are all right. Some are fugitives fromjustice from the States. I recall two exiled bank presidents, onearmy paymaster under a cloud, a couple of manslayers, and a widow--arsenic, I believe, was the suspicion in her case. I myself completethe colony, but, as yet, I have not distinguished myself by anyparticular crime."

"Do not lose hope," said the lady, dryly; "I see nothing in youractions tonight to guarantee you further obscurity. Some mistake hasbeen made; I do not know just where. But ~him~ you shall not disturbtonight. The journey has fatigued him so that he has fallen asleep,I think, in his clothes. You talk of stolen money! I do notunderstand you. Some mistake has been made. I will convince you.Remain where you are and I will bring you the valise that you seemto covet so, and show it to you."

She moved toward the closed door that connected the two rooms, butstopped, and half turned and bestowed upon Goodwin a grave, searchinglook that ended in a quizzical smile.

"You force my door," she said, "and you follow your ruffianly behaviorwith the basest accusations; and yet"--she hesitated, as if toreconsider what she was about to say--"and yet--it is a puzzlingthing--I am sure there has been some mistake."

She took a step toward the door, but Goodwin stayed her by a lighttouch upon her arm. I have said before that women turned to lookat him in the streets. He was the viking sort of man, big, good-looking, and with an air of kindly truculence. She was dark andproud, glowing or pale as her mood moved her. I do not know if Evewere light or dark, but if such a woman had stood in the gardenI know that the apple would have been eaten. This woman was to beGoodwin's fate, and he did not know it; but he must have felt thefirst throes of destiny, for, as he faced her, the knowledge of whatreport named her turned bitter in her throat.

"If there has been any mistake," he said, hotly, "it was yours. I donot blame the man who has lost his country, his honor, and is aboutto lose the poor consolation of his stolen riches as much as I blameyou, for, by Heaven! I can very well see how he was brought to it.I can understand, and pity him. It is such women as you that strewthis degraded coast with wretched exiles, that make men forget theirtrusts, that drag--"

The lady interrupted him with a weary gesture.

"There is no need to continue your insults," she said, coldly."I do not understand what you are saying, nor do I know what madblunder you are making; but if the inspection of the contents ofa gentleman's portmanteau will rid me of you, let us delay it nolonger."

She passed quickly and noiselessly into the other room, and returnedwith the heavy leather valise, which she handed to the American withan air of patient contempt.

Goodwin set the valise quickly upon the table and began to unfastenthe straps. The Lady stood by, with an expression of infinite scornand weariness upon her face.

The valise opened wide to a powerful, sidelong wrench. Goodwindragged out two or three articles of clothing, exposing the bulk ofits contents--package after package of tightly packed United Statesbank and treasury notes of large denomination. Reckoning from thehigh figures written upon the paper bands that bound them, the totalmust have come closely upon the hundred thousand mark.

Goodwin glanced swiftly at the woman, and saw, with surprise anda thrill of pleasure that he wondered at, that she had experiencedan unmistakeable shock. Her eyes grew wide, she gasped, and leanedheavily against the table. She had been ignorant, then, he inferred,that her companion had looted the government treasury. But why,he angrily asked himself, should he be so well pleased to think thiswandering and unscrupulous singer not so black as report had paintedher?

A noise in the other room startled them both. The door swung open,and a tall, elderly, dark complexioned man, recently shaven, hurriedinto the room.

All the pictures of President Miraflores represent him as thepossessor of a luxuriant supply of dark and carefully tended whiskers;but the story of the barber, Esteban, had prepared Goodwin forthe change.

The man stumbled in from the dark room, his eyes blinking at thelamplight, and heavy from sleep.

"What does this mean?" he demanded in excellent English, with a keenand perturbed look at the American--"robbery?"

"Very near it," answered Goodwin. "But I rather think I'm in timeto prevent it. I represent the people to whom this money belongs,and I have come to convey it back to them." He thrust his hand intoa pocket of his loose, linen coat.

The lady stepped forward, and laid one hand upon the shoulder of herhesitating companion. She pointed to the table. "Tell me the truth--the truth," she said, in a low voice. "Whose money is that?"

The man did not answer. He gave a deep, long-drawn sigh, leanedand kissed her on the forehead, stepped back into the other roomand closed the door.

Goodwin foresaw his purpose, and jumped for the door, but the reportof the pistol echoed as his hand touched the knob. A heavy fallfollowed, and some one swept him aside and struggled into the roomof the fallen man.

A desolation, thought Goodwin, greater than that derived fromthe loss of cavalier and gold must have been in the heart of theenchantress to have wrung from her, in that moment, the cry of oneturning to the all-forgiving, all-comforting earthly consoler--tohave made her call out from that bloody and dishonored room--"Oh,mother, mother, mother!"

But there was an alarm outside. The barber, Esteban, at the soundof the shot, had raised his voice; and the shot itself had arousedhalf the town. A pattering of feet came up the street, and officialorders rang out on the still air. Goodwin had a duty to perform.Circumstances had made him the custodian of his adopted country'streasure. Swiftly cramming the money into the valise, he closed it,leaned far out of the window and dropped it into a thick orange-treein the little inclosure below.

They will tell you in Coralio, as they delight in telling thestranger, of the conclusion of that tragic flight. They will tellyou how the upholders of the law came apace when the alarm wassounded--the ~Comandante~ in red slippers and a jacket like a headwaiter's and girded sword, the soldiers with their interminable guns,followed by outnumbering officers struggling into their gold and laceepaulettes; the bare-footed policemen (the only capables in the lot),and ruffled citizens of every hue and description.

They say that the countenance of the dead man was marred sadly bythe effects of the shot; but he was identified as the fallen presidentby both Goodwin and the barber Esteban. On the next morning messagesbegan to come over the mended telegraph wire; and the story of theflight from the capital was given out to the public. In San Mateothe revolutionary party had seized the sceptre of government, withoutopposition, and the ~vivas~ of the mercurial populace quickly effacedthe interest belonging to the unfortunate Miraflores.

They will relate to you how the new government sifted the townsand raked the roads to find the valise containing Anchuria's surpluscapital, which the president was known to have carried with him,but all in vain. In Coralio Senor Goodwin himself led the searchingparty which combed that town as carefully as a woman combs her hair;but the money was not found.

So they buried the dead man, without honors, back of the town nearthe little bridge that spans the mangrove swamp; and for a ~real~a boy will show you his grave. They say that the old woman in whosehut the barber shaved the president placed the wooden slab at hishead, and burned the inscription upon it with a hot iron.

You will hear also that Senor Goodwin, like a tower of strength,shielded Dona Isabel Guilbert through those subsequent distressfuldays; and that his scruples as to her past career (if he had any)vanished; and her adventuresome waywardness (if she had any) lefther, and they were wedded and were happy.

The American built a home on a little foothill near the town. It isa conglomerate structure of native woods that, exported, would beworth a fortune, and of brick, palm, glass, bamboo and adobe. Thereis a paradise of nature about it; and something of the same sortwithin. The natives speak of its interior with hands uplifted inadmiration. There are floors polished like mirrors and covered withhand-woven Indian rugs of silk fibre, tall ornaments and pictures,musical instruments and papered walls--"figure-it-to-yourself!"they exclaim.

But they cannot tell you in Coralio (as you shall learn) what becameof the money that Frank Goodwin dropped into the orange-tree. Butthat shall come later; for the palms are fluttering in the breeze,bidding us to sport and gaiety.

V

Cupid's Exile Number Two

The United States of America, after looking over its stock ofconsular timber, selected Mr. John De Graffenreid Atwood, ofDalesburg, Alabama, for a successor to Willard Geddie, resigned.

Without prejudice to Mr. Atwood, it will have to be acknowledgedthat, in this instance, it was the man who sought the office. Aswith the self-banished Geddie, it was nothing less than the artfulsmiles of lovely woman that had driven Johnny Atwood to the desperateexpedient of accepting office under a despised Federal Governmentso that he might go far, far away and never see again the false, fairface that had wrecked his young life. The consulship at Coralioseemed to offer a retreat sufficiently removed and romantic enoughto inject the necessary drama into the pastoral scenes of Dalesburglife.

It was while playing the part of Cupid's exile that Johnny added hishandiwork to the long list of casualties along the Spanish Main byhis famous manipulation of the shoe market, and his unparalleled featof elevating the most despised and useless weed in his own countryfrom obscurity to be a valuable product in international commerce.

The trouble began, as trouble often begins instead of ending, witha romance. In Dalesburg there was a man named Elijah Hemstetter, whokept a general store. His family consisted of one daughter calledRosine, a name that atoned much for "Hemstetter." This young womanwas possessed of plentiful attractions, so that the young men ofthe community were agitated in their bosoms. Among the more agitatedwas Johnny, the son of Judge Atwood, who lived in the big colonialmansion on the edge of Dalesburg.

It would seem that the desirable Rosine should have been pleased toreturn the affection of an Atwood, a name honored all over the statelong before and since the war. It does seem that she should havegladly consented to have been led into that stately but rather emptycolonial mansion. But not so. There was a cloud on the horizon, athreatening, cumulus cloud, in the shape of a lively and shrewd youngfarmer in the neighborhood who dared to enter the lists as a rival tothe high-born Atwood.

One night Johnny propounded to Rosine a question that is consideredof much importance by the young of the human species. The accessorieswere all there--moonlight, oleanders, magnolias, the mockingbird'ssong. Whether or no the shadow of Pinkney Dawson, that prosperousyoung farmer came between them on that occasion is not known; butRosine's answer was unfavorable. Mr. John De Graffenreid Atwood bowedtill his hat touched the lawn grass, and went away with his head high,but with a sore wound in his pedigree and heart. A Hemstetter refusean Atwood! Zounds!

Among other accidents of that year was a Democratic president. JudgeAtwood was a warhorse of Democracy. Johnny persuaded him to set thewheels moving for some foreign appointment. He would go away--away.Perhaps in years to come Rosine would think how true, how faithfulhis love had been, and would drop a tear--maybe in the cream shewould be skimming for Pink Dawson's breakfast.

The wheels of politics revolved; and Johnny was appointed consul toCoralio. Just before leaving he dropped in at Hemstetter's to saygood-bye. There was a queer, pinkish look about Rosine's eyes; andhad the two been alone, the United States might have had to castabout for another consul. But Pink Dawson was there, of course,talking about his 400-acre orchard, and the three-mile alfalfa tract,and the 200-acre pasture. So Johnny shook hands with Rosine ascoolly as if he were only going to run up to Montgomery for a coupleof days. They had the royal manner when they chose, those Atwoods.

"If you happen to strike anything in the way of a good investmentdown there, Johnny," said Pink Dawson, "just let me know, will you?I reckon I could lay my hands on a few extra thousands 'most any timefor a profitable deal."

So Johnny went down to Mobile and took a fruit steamer for the coastof Anchuria.

When the new consul arrived in Coralio the strangeness of the scenesdiverted him much. He was only twenty-two; and the grief of youthwas not worn like a garment as it is by older men. It has itsseasons when it reigns; and then it is unseated for time by theassertion of the keen senses.

Billy Keogh and Johnny seemed to conceive a mutual friendship atonce. Keogh took the new consul about town and presented him to thehandful of Americans and the smaller number of French and Germans whomade up the "foreign" contingent. And then, of course, he had to bemore formally introduced to the native officials, and have hiscredentials transmitted through an interpreter.

There was something about the young Southerner that the sophisticatedKeogh liked. His manner was simple almost to boyishness; but hepossessed the cool carelessness of a man of far greater age andexperience. Neither uniforms nor titles, red tape nor foreignlanguages, mountains nor sea weighed upon his spirits. He was heirto all ages, an Atwood, of Dalesburg; and you might know everythought conceived to his bosom.

Geddie came down to the consulate to explain the duties and workingsof the office. He and Keogh tried to interest the new consul intheir description of the work that his government expected him toperform.

"It's all right," said Johnnie from the hammock that he had set up asthe official reclining place. "If anything turns up that has to bedone I'll let you fellows do it. You can't expect a Democrat to workduring his first term of holding office."

"You might look over these headings," suggested Geddie, "of thedifferent lines of exports you will have to keep account of. Thefruit is classified; and there are the valuable woods, coffee,rubber--"

"That last account sounds all right," interrupted Mr. Atwood. "Soundsas if it could be stretched. I want to buy a new flag, a monkey, aguitar and a barrel of pineapples. Will the rubber account stretchover 'em?"

"That's merely statistics," said Geddie, smiling. "The expenseaccount is what you want. It is supposed to have a slight elasticity.The 'stationery' items are sometimes carelessly audited by the StateDepartment."

"We're wasting our time," said Keogh. "This man was born to holdoffice. He penetrates to the root of the art at one step of hiseagle eye. The true genius of government shows its hand in everyword of his speech."

"I didn't take this job with any intention of working," explainedJohnny, lazily. "I wanted to go somewhere in the world where theydidn't talk about farms. There are none here, are there?"

"Not the kind you are acquainted with," answered the ex-consul."There is no such art here as agriculture. There never was a plowor a reaper within the boundaries of Anchuria."

"This is the country for me," murmured the consul, and immediatelyhe fell asleep.

The cheerful tintypist pursued his intimacy with Johnny in spiteof open charges that he did so to obtain a preemption on a seat inthat coveted spot, the rear gallery of the consulate. But whetherhis designs were selfish or purely friendly, Keogh achieved thatdesirable privilege. Few were the nights on which the two couldnot be found reposing there in the sea breeze, with their heels onthe railing, and the cigars and brandy conveniently near.

One evening they sat thus, mainly silent, for their talk had dwindledbefore the stilling influence of an unusual night.

There was a great, full moon; and the sea mother-of-pearl. Almostevery sound was hushed, for the air was but faintly stirring; andthe town lay panting, waiting for the night to cool. Offshore laythe fruit steamer ~Andador~, of the Vesuvius line, full-laden andscheduled to sail at six in the morning. There were no loiterers onthe beach. So bright was the moonlight that the two men could seethe small pebbles shining on the beach where the gentle surf wettedthem.